


Oh, if the Dead Could Weep

by b_ofdale



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I have lots of feelings over Héctor, Pre-Movie(s), spoilers but if you're here I guess you've seen the movie, the title is much sadder than the fic itself but you know... still sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-12 16:37:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12963729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/pseuds/b_ofdale
Summary: Héctor thought that being dead was already bad enough—until the first time he tried crossing the Marigold Bridge.





	Oh, if the Dead Could Weep

**Author's Note:**

> I had too many feelings over Héctor so I wrote a little fic set after his death... I don't know if it's any good, but I tried? It's nothing special but I loved writing it! :D
> 
> The first time Héctor learned he couldn't cross the bridge had to be pretty hard on him, so that's what some of this little fic is about. And I guess he wasn't as comfortable with being a skeleton (and dead) as he is in the movie. It's always difficult for me to get characterization right on my first try, so I hope this is alright! (I also hope I didn't butcher the little bit of Spanish featured in this fic...)
> 
> Big thanks to [Liz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsmoore/) for the editing <33

“Wait, what do you mean I’m ‘not on anyone’s ofrenda?’”

“It means what it means, señor Rivera,” the bridge agent said, the compassion in her voice doing little to ease Héctor’s ever-growing anxiety. He shifted from one foot to the other, repeating to himself that it had to be a misunderstanding. 

“This must be some kind of mistake. . . My daughter—she would have wanted to put up my photo—” He squeezed his straw hat, pressing it over his chest. “Please, señora.”

“I'm sorry,” the lady repeated, “if your photo isn't up, you cannot cross the bridge.” She gave him an apologetic look. “That's just how it is.”

Héctor stared at her in disbelief, feeling what was left of the apprehensive enthusiasm he’d felt over the past few days wash away. For months he’d waited for this day, and now here he was, watching it be taken away from him before the tips of his fingers could even brush over it. 

“Is there really no way? I just need to—”

“Señor—”

“No that’s fine, it’s fine.” Héctor sent her a cheeky smile, taking a few steps back. “It’s fine. Absolutely fine. I’ll just—I’ll be on my way.”

The agent smiled back. She seemed to genuinely feel sorry for him. Héctor felt sorry for himself, too.

As he pretended to draw back, he abruptly turned the opposite direction, making a run for the Marigold Bridge. 

He wasn’t going to let a stupid bridge stop him from seeing his daughter, _oh no, not today señora._

But Héctor wasn’t much more than a few steps away from the bridge before he stumbled over his feet as he tried to escape the agent’s hold on him. He fell face first onto the floor, unable to do more than to reach out towards the bridge, unsuccessfully. So close. He cursed under his breath, and swallowed a marigold petal that went flying his way while he was at it. 

He spat it out bitterly.

That day, he had no way of knowing how many times that same scenario would play out repeatedly over the years that would follow. 

Héctor had little time to process that it was useless in trying again: to get up and to give it another go. He was quickly yanked away by another agent and effortlessly put back onto his feet—before he could even give it a second try. He felt on the verge of unshed, invisible tears.

“You get away with a warning this time señor.” The agent who’d accidentally caused his fall and then helped him stand up gave him a look of sympathy. Héctor barely heard him. “There’s no use in trying to cross if—”

Héctor tore his arm away from the agent with little force, keeping a small smile on his face, though he didn't know who nor what it was for. Maybe, as a means to pretend that he was alright, despite how far from the truth it was. “Can I leave?”

The agent inspected his face for a short moment, before nodding with a sigh. “Don’t cause any more trouble, alright amigo?”

“Sí,” Héctor murmured, before going on his way, shoulders slumped and his limp intensified. The stares and the looks of pity that he received as he walked past didn’t feel as sympathetic as they were probably meant to be. 

He was _dead_ in the most ridiculous way, and now here he was, unable to visit his daughter. It was already terrible enough that he would never have the chance to walk alongside her as she grew up. He’d hoped that, at least, he could have seen her once a year on Día de los Muertos. Even if she couldn’t see him in return. 

Even that was too much it seemed, and he felt too lost to process exactly what was happening, the smile he'd put on for the agents fading away. 

Héctor sat on a wall of bricks by the departures, his hat on his lap and his hands held together over it. 

Why had no one put his photo on an ofrenda? 

Didn’t Imelda know he was dead? Unless she was simply mad at him for not going back home—but mad enough to forget him? A short, sad laugh shook him. Actually, that would be just like Imelda. . . But Héctor refused to believe it, and thinking that she didn’t know about his death for some reason didn't make him feel any better. 

She must have been thinking that he'd abandoned his family with no intention of coming back to them. And that? That was worse. 

But he couldn’t deny he _had_ abandoned them, on the day he'd left with his best friend, and he’d never forgive himself for that.

To think that he’d _meant_ to go home that day. . . if only he could tell Imelda. Would she even believe him? He had no way of knowing for sure, and perhaps, that was one of the hardest parts of it all; having no idea if his family in the living world would ever learn about what had happened to him. 

Ever know how much he loved them. 

How much he wished he could be with them. 

How much he wished things would have gone differently.

And it was all his fault. 

Héctor heaved out a heavy sigh. He’d heard that you found peace in death. . . well, he hadn’t seen even a smidge of it. Perhaps, that was for the better—after all, he’d brought all of this upon himself.

What was he going to do now? He had to find a way to see Coco again—

“C’mon, kid,” a voice suddenly said, pulling Héctor out of his brooding. “Don’t stay there, you gonna make all the happy _gente_ sad.”

Héctor glanced up from his lap, brows furrowed. A small, old man stood before him, a hard look on his face and a hat upon his head, too.

“Do I know you?” he asked, not unkindly. 

“Name’s Chicharrón.” The old man looked at him once over. “You alone, kid?”

Héctor teared his eyes away. “I suppose.”

Chicharrón nodded. “Get used to it. If your family didn’t put up your photo, they never will. It’s not the greatest thing to hear, but believe me, I know.”

“And I thought I was the pessimistic one,” Héctor laughed, more sadly than bitterly. 

“That's life. Or death, if you prefer.” Chicharrón looked towards to the city. “There are others like us, in the slums. In Shantytown. You're welcomed there.”

Héctor shrugged, his thoughts still focused on Coco, rather than on the old man’s invitation. “Gracias,” he eventually said quietly. He couldn't really bring himself to care about where he'd spend the night right now—waking up dead had been a shock, but this? This was worse. 

Maybe they _would_ put up his photo next year—or perhaps he should get used to being forgotten. 

Héctor slapped his knee, so hard that some of his knuckles nearly went flying. 

No, no, _no_. He would _never_ give up—he would try every year if he had to, until he saw Coco again.

Then, when Héctor looked back up again, Chicharrón was nowhere in sight.

It turned out the old man had been right.

The following year, his photo wasn’t on anyone’s ofrenda. And the year after that, neither. 

Nor the next. 

Héctor never stopped trying, though.

Even if he ended up unsuccessful every single time; when the agents didn't catch him, the Marigold Bridge did. 

The agents were kind to him, at first. The first three years, maybe. Then, they started to get annoyed. 

When he wasn't put in detention for the night, he either wandered the city aimlessly, or sat on the same brick wall, until it was time to go back to the slums and try to forget his sorrows, joke around and pretend he was alright. 

The brick wall. That's where he was at the end of the day, after another failure, the first time he heard it. He was singing his and Coco’s song quietly, hoping that she could somehow hear him, and that he would go home and apologize, even if neither of his girls could hear him.

He sang their song, their lullaby, to himself, not expecting nor wanting to share it with anyone else but his Coco, and yet—

“Oh, I love that song!” a man told him cheerfully, carrying a basket of food and humming a tune Hector didn’t know, before he carried on his way. 

“Ah, gracias—wait, what?” Héctor jumped to his feet, quickly putting his hat on and catching up with the stranger. “Señor? Señor?”

Limping by the man's side, Héctor tried to get a good look at him. He didn't seem to be anyone Héctor had known while he was alive.

“Apologies señor, where did you hear that song?” he asked, trying to keep his voice disinterested, but failing. “Have you met my Coco?”

“‘Coco’ who?” The man kept on walking without taking a look behind him, Héctor on his heels. “No, it’s this new guy, Ernesto de la Cruz! Everyone’s singing his songs back there. Here soon too, for sure! A future legend, I'm telling you!”

Héctor stopped in his tracks, watching the man disappear. 

“Ernesto?” he breathed, to the fading humming of the man. His hand clenched into a fist, and he turned back towards the crowd of people going in and out of the Land of the Dead. 

As family after family passed him by, a lump formed in Héctor’s throat. That man wasn’t the only one humming tunes heard among the living. 

And when there were words that paired with their humming, Héctor knew all of the words. 

His and Coco’s song came out more often than the others. 

“Bastardo!” Héctor cursed. He started and bowed his head in apology when a lady passing by with her daughter sent him an accusing glare, before resuming to silent cursing that made up for what he couldn’t do. If he could have wept, he would have. 

If anything, his motivation grew.

And his reputation with it.

“Look, Chorizo tried again!”

“Señor, we’ve already told you, _times and times again. . ._ ”

“There is no use, Héctor.”

He heard many of those over the years. 

Nonetheless every year he tried, to the tune of new songs— _his_ songs—the Dead brought from the Land of the Living. 

Héctor was angry and bitter, at first—but over time he found that being angry was useless, and the bitterness on his tongue didn’t turn sweet. Ernesto had stolen his songs, and by doing so, taken the credit that would have allowed him to see his daughter again. If someone, anyone had known about him and put up his photo— 

It wasn’t fair—but what could he do about it? 

What could he do about it, except by trying again and again? He owed Coco that much, didn’t he? 

But now that there was no more heart in his chest, it was the weight of his soul that he felt heavy upon his shoulders. 

He just wanted to go back home.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, even the tiniest of comment would make my day! <3 Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ [evansluke](http://evansluke.tumblr.com/)!


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